Ode to the Old By Helena Musgrave

I served my country and grafted hard all my life but you would never have guessed. As the drug addicts barge past me in my oh, so familiar chemist to claim their next hit, I wait patiently in line to receive my life extending drugs (what life). Juveniles shout abuse and laugh at my ailments; if only I were young again I would be released from this stoop, this frailty, this greyness and this bus pass which have ensured my status as a second class citizen. My constant dread is to leave the place I once called home, my sanctuary protecting me from mugging and rape.

I instead experience a constant influx of aggressive sales agents believing I am an easy target, forcing my hand to buy 'goods' I find both confusing and useless. I am fobbed off with Prozac by doctors who believe my depression is a symptom of old age, I wonder why psychological help is denied to me and given freely to the young. I admit I'm down, but not yet out. My family will 'place' me in a nursing home for I struggle to pay my bills and to stay warm in winter. I've heard horror stories of these secure units and fear the staff will ignore my fragile paper skin and sensitivity to cold. I don't wish to spend my final days in a nappy 'pad', where I am scolded when my body fails me yet again. When crying out for a paracetamol for my aching head, I don't want to be refused by the beaurocrats who dictate my careplan. I guess all I have to look forward to is the curse of dementia. I just hope when my mental clock stops, the clock hands are left frozen in a positive thought loop. I know this consciousness will be eternally repeated as my memory dies and I cling on to my last shred of sanity. My world has been taken away from me; please someone just let me die.

Copyright ©2008  Helena Musgrave

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